


South of Tatooine - A Liar's Guide to Surviving Galactic Mayhem

by freshneverfrozen



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, He doesn't like you much, Jealousy, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Light Angst, Nice(ish) Hux, Old Republic Easter Eggs, Pining, Reader-Insert, Sexual Content, villains are people too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-15 19:19:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12327171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshneverfrozen/pseuds/freshneverfrozen
Summary: Some Jedi teaching somewhere said there was no such thing as luck. Some smugglers never wanted to know the odds. The way you figured it, if you had enough of one, you didn't need both.  When the First Order’s General Hux conscripts your services and you’ve only dubious associations and a penchant for grand larceny to offer him, you might settle for any help you can get. The galaxy is on fire and murmurings of old legends are threatening to crush the only thing you had ever fought for - yourself.Because it's hard to make allies among monsters...and harder still to love them.





	1. Step 1: Survive the Initial Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> This grew out of my original attempt at my Acquisitionist series. There will be easter eggs and mentions of Old Republic/Legends lore (even though it's not 'canon'). You don't need to be familiar with the games or extended universe to understand this story, promise.
> 
> Also, this story involves a decent-ish person with questionable ethics (inadvertently?) trying to save other even less decent people with NO ethics. That's not always a healthy idea. Please, remember to take care of yourself first and save the galaxy later.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karma will eventually bite you; always have a back up plan.

Resistance agents are _assholes_.  


Big ones. 

And on any other occasion, they could – no ifs, ands, buts, nors, or fors about it – get _wrecked_. Especially this one, with his smarmy grin and eyes that promised, just maybe, to kiss you before he kills you if you loosen his restraints just a little bit. Just enough, you think to yourself, to give that dangerous gleam in his eye a chance at a fair fight. 

Bantha-herding, blaster-happy, planet-wrecking _assholes_. 

The deactivated BB unit currently taking up space in the corner nearby still has you glaring suspiciously at it each time your left leg spasms from where the droid had lanced you with too healthy a dose of electricity. It _hurts_. You’ve had worse, can feel the stretch and pull of old scars if you flex too hard, but your pride bruises harder than your body. The Resistance thug catches you scowling at his droid. 

He drawls, his voice meant for bedrooms and long nights. “He’s really very sweet.” 

“Yeah, like a womp rat.” Your leg twinges again and you grit your teeth. “Asshole.” 

You’re well practiced in what follows; it only takes you two minutes to gather your gear, plucking it from the selection of ruined walls and fallen statuary littering the chamber. The temple hasn’t long been in ruins but that doesn’t stop the dust motes and dark corners from being too atmospheric for comfort. You’d have to remember to come back some day, maybe take some etchings of the many inscriptions too ancient and too alien for you to read right now. Until then, you pack away the portable turrets, nullifiers, and a host of other gadgetry with a fluidity you notice the man watches with interest. 

_Yes,_ you think, hoping your layered garments disguise the puffing of your chest, _these are mine. Those are mine. For all intents and purposes, you’re mine._ He’s yours to keep controlled, to keep safe and whole, to deliver _alive_. This was acquisition #103 and no, getting popped by a BB-8 unit of all things hadn’t been your finest moment, but the job’s half over and a generous deposit of credits is in sight. 

“So, where we goin’?” asks 103 once you’ve swept over every trace of your presence. “Somewhere nice I hope – not that Dathomir doesn’t have its charm. Rancors, restless natives, swamp gas –” 

You might have smiled if you hadn’t promised yourself already that you wouldn’t. You forced the accord the moment you’d first looked down into those eyes and seen all the humor and charm hiding there amidst the surprise and glinting anger. 

“Get up, please.” 

You catch his elbow and heft him to his feet. He’s unsteady and he purposely falls into you, chest to chest, and it’s not flirtatious, no, it’s meant to intimidate and deter you. He might not be a big man, but he’s bigger than you and you can tell that somewhere beneath the calm swagger, he’s spoiling for a fight. 

There had been a brief scuffle that had mostly involved you trying to manhandle his larger frame onto his belly so that you could apply the cuffs currently restraining his wrists. The mobile turrets you’d deployed and their precisely calculated shock blasts had done most of the work for you as soon as he’d stepped into the room. The aftereffects have him a little twitchy still - you can feel it as the muscles jolt beneath your fingertips and the orange flight suit he wears. Maybe you can’t blame him for not fighting back just yet. Toppling to the ground might crack that carefully manufactured cool of his. 

“…big snakes, little snakes, endless forests…” 

His rambling ends abruptly when the joint clutched beneath your hand gives a whining creak. You try not to do this; sometimes you forget you even can. Most of your acquisitions aren’t people and the ones that are usually have less gusto than the man in front of you now. But if you squeeze any harder – and he better not for a moment think you won’t – the bone and cartilage will fracture into more pieces than either of you have time to count, much less tend to. 

“Ow!” 

It’s the first genuine sign of displeasure you’ve drawn from him since he waltzed into your trap. The force behind your grip is creeping up his neck like a spider, you can see as much as his brows narrow and drop low enough to break that façade. It’s hard not to smile beneath the worn red cowl and mask you wear. 

A little teasing never hurt anybody and he deserves it. Maybe it might remind him that this isn’t personal, not even with the Resistance orange running down his body. 

“You alright, handsome?” 

Another squeeze and the ensuing gulp of air tells you he’s not. 

With a wince, he flexes, testing your grip, making sure he hasn’t imagined it. 

“What are you packing under those gloves – ah, just curious.” 

You forgo both his question and the blaster at your side for now, even as you urge him forward the first few steps. 103’s not going anywhere even if he tries, not with all his appendages attached anyway, what with a cybernetic arm latched firmly onto him. 

You’d been in your late teens, far away from Dathomir and a decade’s worth of targets, when a stray shot from an x-wing had missed the squadron of stormtroopers holed up in an alleyway beside your family’s home. That much firepower had made easy work of duracrete and mortar. Flesh and bone hadn’t stood much of a chance either. Since those early years, the initial prosthetic you’d once sported had been upgraded to polished ultrachrome and top of the line cortosis reinforcements from shoulder to fingertips. 

The Resistance agent was only going to find out about it if he pushed his luck too far; until then, let him enjoy the little hints and the uncertainty that followed. 

You plied him with an almost jovial pinch. “Best you don’t challenge me to arm wrestle. Now scoot, if you don’t mind.” 

“My droid –” 

“You wanna carry it?” 

103 thinks too hard for a second too long and again, you get a glimpse at the whip-sharp cleverness hiding beneath those doe-eyes. Weighing his chances of escape, the likelihood of looters…and something else. The prospect of something – and it isn’t you, you’re sure – sets his teeth on edge. Finally, he rolls his shoulders and you could almost believe his sudden nonchalance. 

“Nah.” 

“Then _move_ ,” you say, “please.” 

A short walk sees you free of the ruins and out into the rank Dathomirian air. A Resistance X-wing sits within view; its compact size had allowed it to land nearer the old temple than your own ship had been able. 103 is in no hurry and the hike takes longer than you’re comfortable with, even as you do your best to propel him forward, urgent but just shy of careless. Your eyes keep to what little of the skyline you can see above the twisting vegetation. Dathomir has been busy of late and very few of its inhabitants, old and new, are friendly toward Resistance members and those who accompany them. 

The _Meridian_ – your _Meridian_ – is a close-quartered, heavily modified, and lovingly cared for freighter and she’s waiting exactly where you’d left her, namely out of sight and under the radar of any Resistance agents too cocky to do a full sweep. You hear 103 whistle his appreciation, either ignorant or uncaring that he was looking at the vessel that would deliver him sooner rather than later to your client. 

“A VCX-100, _nice_. Who’d you murder for that beauty?” 

You shrug. “A Corellian whiskey scion and his family.” 

The agent sucks in a breath. “Shit. Seriously?” 

You crack a wry smile, glad once more that he can’t see it. “No.” 

You don’t give him time to relax at the information, pressing him forward just as the loading ramp descends to greet you. A moment later, a sleek golden head appears in the widening gap, bright, violet eyes blinking down at you expectantly. 

“Cute,” 103 says as the little animal tip-toes its way down to meet the two of you, “You’ve got a pet.” 

Irritation creeps up your spine and down into your fingers; it’s not as though you’re some soulless husk. You can have a pet. The one twining its way around your ankles, his back bristling in gold and burnt orange, is proof enough. Typical Resistance arrogance, as though you’re either with them or you’re some inhuman thing, without a life, without family. You’d almost forgotten the man’s chosen cause and you shove him the rest of the way up the ramp, a little less gently than is polite. 

Pressing a metal finger into his chest, you say, “You are not to touch Tooka Fett. Clear?” 

He blinks at you, disbelieving, and looks to the loth-cat rather than at the ship ramp sealing behind both of you. 

“Wait,” he says, “You named it ‘Tooka _Fett’_? And so _we’re_ clear,” he’s doing it again, standing too close, all bluster and boldness, “The Resistance isn’t contagious. And look at him, he’s wearing our colors –” 

“Move,” you’re tired of this now, “please, before stars start dying.” 

He has nowhere to go, not really, unless he wants to make his last stand in the little galley or the cockpit. The cargo hold and quarters are all sealed with passcodes. You sigh, half-tempted to tear off the mask just to get some breathing room, but then he’d see your face and you don’t want to give him that. You don’t want it to be your visage he lays awake hating when he gets to where he’s going. Better to be anonymous. Better to let him imagine. 

“Just…go sit in there, if you don’t mind.” 

You wave him toward a row of crew seating installed behind the cockpit. He goes as prompted, but not without a curious, awkwardly long look at you. 

“You know,” he says, “You’re polite for a bounty hunter.” 

“Acquisitionist,” you correct. 

“Bounty hunter,” there’s a gleam of sharp teeth behind his lips as he scowls at you over his shoulder. He is left with little choice but to plop down in the chair you direct him to, one modified with restraints that even his best whimsical smile can’t get him out of. He has clearly been smart enough not to fight you and in turn, you are kind enough not to fasten anything other than his feet, freeing his wrists and daring him with your metal hand splayed over the seat next to his to make a move. He doesn’t. There’s nothing within his reach and if he was to try fiddling with the cuffs, it would make the voltage you took to your leg earlier feel like a sexy tickle. 

You wonder if maybe the menacing placement of your hand is undone somewhat as Tooka Fett winds himself through your legs, purring happily at your return. 

“Paws off the Resistance scum, Tooka.” You turn your gaze to 103 and he must feel it because he ceases his fidgeting long enough to look obedient. “Paws. Off,” you grind out. 

He gives an imperious sniff before running a hand through his hair, scattering the dark curls that had been done no favors by Dathomir’s humidity. 

“Resistance scum Poe Dameron, if you must know.” He tosses you a grin that lets you know quick enough he already expects you know exactly who he is. “Maybe you’ve heard of me? Best pilot in the –” 

You don’t wait to hear the remaining self-indulgent witticisms he’s no doubt rehearsed in the mirror on more than one occasion. _Probably nightly_. Your lip curls. _Definitely nightly_. 

It only takes enough time for you to get settled in the cockpit and warm up the thrusters before 103 is warbling for your attention again. You let your head drop back onto the seat before you manage the heart to turn – only to see Tooka Fett with his little golden paws batting at 103’s cheek, the loth-cat’s tail swishing happily over orange-clad knees as the pilot coos his approval. 

Your breath leaves you with a shriek of betrayal. 

Two pairs of eyes, one pair dark, one violet, and both uncanny and so, so _busted_ turn towards you. The man quickly sweeps the cat up and deposits him gently on the floor. He makes short, rage-inducingly conspicuous work of brushing the glinting hairs from his uniform. 

“ _Ahem_ ,” he doesn’t look at you, “He started it.” 

You jab angrily at the few buttons blinking on the console before turning back to glare him – prisoner, captive, _acquisition_ – into submission, or if nothing else, to remind him that while you may not _want_ to, you can and will pulverize every bone in his body until not even bacta can salvage him. 

He clears his throat just as the engine core begins to rumble. “So, bounty hunter, since Starkiller’s, y’know, _gone_ , where will you be taking me?” 

You pause in your button-smashing long enough to glance over your shoulder. 

“What?” He can’t see your face, but from his (one-hundred percent manufactured) expression of boredom, you know he hears the confusion in your voice. 

“The First Order,” he clarifies with a sigh that tells too many secrets, “Where do they want me this time?” 

If he hears your grumbling recitation of what a self-important nerf humper he is, he doesn’t show it. 

“The First Order didn’t hire me,” you say as patiently as you can manage, “A diplomat from Lianna claims you slept with his wife.” 

“Wait – you’re not First Order?” 

“Noooo…” you hum and shake your head. Resistance and First Order, so wrapped up in one another they forget other people are still surviving in this galaxy, still enterprising. _Enterprising and doing well_ , you think, _despite the sweeping politics and galactic mayhem_. 

“You tracked me – me, Poe Dameron, known Resistance pilot – all the way to Dathomir because I slept with some guy’s wife?” His composure is slipping into what might be hysterics if he’s not careful, that coolness of his fraying as his reality sinks in. “I’m on a bounty hunter’s –“ 

“Acquisitionist’s, but continue.” 

“ – ship and it’s not even because I’m fighting the good fight? The only fight?” 

“Yes?” 

“No – no. No.” 

“Yes,” you finally surrender with a suffering groan, “ _Yes_ , Very Important Resistance Pilot Dameron, you are my captive solely because you _docked your_ _ship_ in a port it had no business visiting!” 

From behind you, you hear him settle for a moment before he lurches up again, his restraints scraping loud enough to distract you. 

“And you’re sure you’re not First Order?” he asks, his voice gone quiet and whether it’s meant to calm either himself or you doesn’t matter, not as you whip around in your seat to snap at him. 

“Stars, no! Independent contractor for the last –” 

“Because,” he says and those quick, dark eyes are looking past you now, and you _know_ that look and the cold-running blood that comes with it, “those look an awful lot like stormtroopers.” 

You choke down the fear that tries to claw its way up your throat as you swivel around in your chair to peer out the forward window. _Well, he’s not wrong. Shit, shit, shit._

_  
_

The squadron is looking at you looking at them and you offer a half-hearted wave, hearing 103 plant his hand over his face and sigh somewhere behind you as you do it. 

_  
_

“Do you get paid if we’re captured?” he asks. 

“Negative, I do not.” Because you don’t, you definitely don’t because you _have a Resistance pilot on your ship_ and the First Order wrote the book on guilt by association. 

“And are you a decent pilot?” 

You don’t take your eyes off the surrounding soldiers as you answer, “I got here, didn’t I?” 

“Oh, hell. Navigating hyperspace doesn’t make you a decent pilot! How _good_ are you?” 

“Just…Just sit tight, Dameron,” you say as you press the button to lower boarding ramp. You stand and make your way past him. A last-minute thought brings you up short. 

“Can you stand?” 

He can, it seems, though still not steadily. Leaning down, you quickly adjust the leg of his pants to cover most of the shackles. You’re loathe to do it, but you begin to pull away the cowl obscuring your shoulders and hair, draping them instead over Poe’s wider frame, hiding the orange as best you can. You can feel his eyes linger on the rough scar that runs along the edge of your prosthetic. It’s too much, the attention too _there_ , and it makes you fumble with the catch on your mask. But it’s this or risking the entirety of Dathomir’s First Order presence blasting you out of the sky for failing to submit to an impromptu inspection. There’s not much traffic on Dathomir anymore and the _Meridian_ would be easy pickings… 

You try not close your eyes when you hear Dameron’s measured assurance. 

“Breathe,” he whispers as though he doesn’t have chains on his ankles. 

_Shit_ . 

You manage the latch and pull the mask away, pressing it into his hands as you turn and stride toward the ship’s entrance; you can hear the demands for the _Meridian’s_ captain at the ramp. 

“Don’t draw attention to yourself,” you call quietly back to him, “I won’t shoot you but they will. And don’t touch my cat.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

It’s the last thing you hear him say before he’s out of sight and you’re standing in front of the ramp. One tap to the door control is all it takes to reveal the troops waiting below, their bright white armor shining garishly in the red glow of the Dathomirian sun. A lone officer stands at their center, his uniform too crisp for the glean of sweat on his brow. He’s young, you notice, and that either means he’s got something to prove or he’ll be too inexperienced to ask dangerous questions. 

“Officer,” you greet him as you descend the ramp, your hands kept firmly in view. A blaster bolt from an overzealous stormtrooper would really ruin your day. “How can I assist the First Order?” 

It’s the right question to ask because the man relaxes just a fraction. He’s dark-eyed like Dameron, though not as swarthy, and not half as arrogant, which is saying something given the uniform he’s sporting. 

“Are you the ship’s captain?” 

“I am,” you say, offering him your first name. The last name ‘Onasi’ that follows is one of about a dozen aliases you use and just happens to be the one the _Meridian_ is registered under. The officer is quick to check it, pulling a small datapad from his pocket and tapping away. You know what it will say. You’re the _Meridian’s_ captain, a historian by profession, and the only thing wrong with your record is a low altitude collision on Coroscant that hadn’t been your fault. The only thing you’re going to have to explain is why you have an _unregistered crew member_ on board. 

“Are you carrying cargo?” 

“No.” It’s mostly not a lie. 

The officer nods, his eyes flicking up to meet yours and you could be crazy, but you swear it only makes him all the more nervous. “And what’s your business here on Dathomir?” 

You don’t hesitate, your smile warm and candid. It makes him swallow. 

“I’m so glad you asked! I’ve come here to study the remains of the Nightsisters’ temple here – the architecture was said to be constructed via their connection to the Force here, or ‘magick,’ rather, as they believed it. I’m not sure I buy it, though, after studying some of the finer work. Probably just stories to keep the local tribes in line, you understand –” Your words taper off and you catch his eye before ducking your head, the picture of tame embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I’ve bored you. I’ll talk for ages if you let me. You’re welcome to search my ship if you like.” 

One last smile dares him to call your bluff. 

For a moment, you think he won’t. Not as he shifts from foot to foot in those dusty black boots and glances from the datapad in his hands back to your timid smile. But then one of the stormtroopers steps up, a red pauldron glaring under the sunlight, and volunteers to search the vessel with two of his men. The officer steels himself, you can see it flashing in bright neon letters as all that fancy academy training kicks in and surpasses the man who hates to inconvenience a lady and her pretty smile. 

“Very well,” he says and looks to you, one hand outstretched and waiting for you to lead the way, “Captain Onasi, if you will.” 

There is no choice but to comply. Within a few moments, the _Meridian_ is the unwilling host to three stormtroopers and their officer. 

“Cargo hold is through here,” you say. You don’t need to ask if they’d like you to unlock it because _of course they do_. They find nothing, not the first crate to search, and whether their grumbles are those of suspicion or relief, you’ve got no way to tell. However, you’re not entirely convinced your luck is that good, so it’s probably the former. 

“My co-pilot is readying the ship for launch. He’s in the cockpit now –” 

The officer’s dark eyes narrow marginally beneath the brim of his cap. “There was no one else listed on the vessel’s registration.” 

“Ah, no, no, there wasn’t.” 

Your hand drags through your hair, your eyes glancing at your boots. _Sell it_ , you think, _and pretty please let him buy it_. 

“I…well, I was concerned about there being remnants of some of the old tribes here, the zabrak that once inhabited the area and, well…you know how _aliens_ are.” At this, the man appears sympathetic, if only for a moment. You continue despite the angry clench of your gut. “I thought it best to employ someone else for safety’s sake. Picked him up when I fueled up on Lianna.” 

“Indeed,” he replies softly, though there’s something in his voice that makes you think he’s not quite a fool, “Though you seem capable.” 

“Capable _and_ careful, I like to think.” 

The troopers move past you, stomping down the hall with their heavy boots and you can’t help but call out for them to mind the cat. You nimbly slip by them as they scan the crew quarters and _damn it_ , you’ve got to remember to stop keeping the place so tidy because it looks as if no one has set foot in it in the last hundred rotations. Mostly because they haven’t. You don’t operate with a crew, not outside of the occasional droid at least. 

From the archway, you can see Dameron standing right where you’d left him. He’s rolled down the upper half of the suit and tied the arms around his hips, leaving nothing but a white undershirt and your faded scarf draped over his shoulders. His lower face is obscured by your mask. Could you pass it off as a breathing apparatus, you wonder? _No, officer! He mustn’t take it off, he’ll die. Slowly_. _Painfully_. You scowl. _If only._

_  
_

“Captain Onasi?” 

_  
_

You give a start. Are First Order boots especially made for creeping? Or is this officer just used to tiptoeing around dangerous superiors? Either way, you turn to meet him. 

“Officer?” 

“Mitaka.” 

_What’s a Mita…oh_ . He thought you were asking his name. It’d be almost cute if this whole situation wasn’t going to end with you on the wrong side of a blaster here shortly. You offer your brightest smile. 

“Officer Mitaka, then. There’s no trouble is there?” 

Both he and the stormtrooper with the red pauldron appear to have nothing to complain about – though you’d guess one of them is considerably more disappointed than the other over this development. 

“Nothing of note, no. FN – 1943, if you will check the vessel’s flight log, we can all be on our way.” 

Red Pauldron makes his way to the cockpit, ignoring both you and the Resistance member standing just a few feet away. That same Resistance member doesn’t miss the opportunity to scope out the trooper’s blaster rifle before those damn, stupidly, _imbecilically_ reckless eyes of his sweep over Mitaka as well. 

_Shit_ . 

He wouldn’t. There’s two more fucking troopers on this ship, plus another seven or eight outside, and this shit-show is about to go south of Tatooine in a handbasket. 

Your eyes meet his and somehow you just know he’s grinning at you under that mask. _Don’t you even think about it_ , you dare him wordlessly, your gloved fingers clenching in a threat you hope he’s smart enough to spot. For just a moment, he looks to you before glancing at the stormtrooper near the console. Your jaw clenches until your teeth threaten to crack. He must see it, because he gives just the barest shrug of his shoulders to tell you what’s coming next. 

Resistance agents really are assholes. 

Monumentally stupid ones, because he’s still restrained and there’s no way he can take out – 

But Poe Dameron has apparently had his fill of the First Order today. No sooner has Officer Mitaka stepped within range of him than does the pilot lunge the remainder of the distance, slamming Mitaka into the nearest bulkhead. Somehow, someway, he’s undone the _fucking_ shackles. The bastard had been biding his time all this while. 

You’re going to crush him into stardust. 

Who cries out the loudest is impossible to tell, whether it’s you, poor Mitaka, or the trooper. Mitaka’s got a nasty gash along his brow and Dameron’s arm wrapped securely around his throat, the pilot pressed at his back and holding him close so that neither you nor the trooper can get near either of them. He had managed to snag the man’s blaster as well, the barrel pressed snugly against Mitaka’s temple. 

“I’ll kill him if you make me. Now, step back.” 

As if to prove the point, Dameron wrenches the officer’s neck just enough to cause the other man to hiss through his teeth. There’s a commotion from the hallway and soon the other two troopers are spilling into view, their blasters at the ready. “Nuh uh! Not another step, any of you. You reach for that comm and I’ll kill him. Now, if you don’t mind, move towards the door.” 

Red Pauldron’s finger twitches over his rifle’s trigger once or twice before he apparently thinks better of taking the shot. Without a word, he joins his fellow soldiers just outside the door. 

“Come on, bounty hunter. You, too.” 

All at once, you feel five sets of eyes on you. Suddenly, those blasters aren’t entirely sure who they should be pointing towards. 

“ _Acquisitionist_ ,” the words are sharp and dangerous like glass, “you Force-damned, gizka-fucker.” 

You can _feel_ Dameron’s answering smile. “Stop,” he says, “You’ll make me blush. Now, go on.” 

Mitaka is watching you carefully; he’s handling the situation with more grace than most, almost as if this isn’t the first near-death experience he’s had. The flutter of his eyelids, the thin, pale line of his lips all speak to a man who has clearly resigned himself to these sorts of situations. 

“Kill him and you’ve got nothing between you and me,” you say as you move slowly back toward the door, “Bad plan, trust me.” 

“Keep moving, all of you. You’re getting off this ship.” He urges Mitaka forward, driving you back with the stormtroopers, step by step until you find yourself standing near the entryway. 

“You’ll never make it off planet in time –” The argument tastes stale in your mouth as you see the corner of Dameron’s lips quirk up. Mitaka for his part looks like he agrees with you. 

“No, _you_ couldn’t make it in time,” Dameron asserts and oh, right – best pilot in the Resistance. “Me…this’ll be a milk run. Now, captain, if you don’t mind…” 

Take a hike, he means, off your own damn ship. 

The blaster digs roughly into the flesh beneath Mitaka’s jaw, the silver-black barrel only more garish as the officer turns yet another shade of pale. He swallows grimly and it’s that acceptance that drives you back another step. 

Dameron turns his attention to the big stormtrooper nearest you. “The lady’s looking a little lost, soldier boy,” he says, “Help her find the door?” 

“ _Move_ ,” Red grunts through his helmet. The unmistakable prickling at the back of your neck lets you know that you’re not imagining the pressure of a blaster barrel resting just above your kidneys. 

“Easy,” you hold your hands out, placating, “I’m moving. Just…let him go, Dameron. Don’t shoot him.” 

Dameron grins and he gives Mitaka a squeeze. “She sells people for money and has a soft spot for men in uniform. Cute, right?” 

Mitaka is noticeably apprehensive to agree. In fact, he looks downright _woozy_. The wound above his eye is still weeping, bleeding messily as head wounds do, and it's a small wonder the man's still on his feet. No shit Dameron wants you off the ship so badly - if the officer goes down, it's going to be a free for all. 

You don't get the chance to wait him out. Red's white-gauntleted hand closes over your shoulder and you're hauled off your feet. You ragdoll past the other two troopers, crashing against the door with a solid thud. 

“On your feet,” one soldier snarls, “Open it.” 

_Or you could just shoot the rat bastard,_ you seethe, _if you weren't a fucking stormtrooper._ Their pisspoor aim is as much the stuff of legends today as it had been when the Empire was overseeing their training. You clamber to your feet, rolling your prosthetic because Force knows, you are sorely tempted to march over and beat Dameron to death with it, poor Mitaka be damned. But that would get _you_ shot, so instead, you bring your finger down angrily over one keypad button and then another until the door rushes open to reveal Dathomir’s fading light. 

“Go,” barks Red and just whose favorite boot-kisser is Mitaka anyway to warrant three armed First Order soldiers passing up a chance at Resistance chump number one? Within moments the other two have followed you out, Red at their heels. Mitaka is kicked down the ramp directly, stumbling forward with an admirable curse that's only barely drowned out by the door sealing shut behind him and - 

Tooka Fett is still on the ship. 

Not only is Dameron stealing your livelihood...he's making off with your damned cat. You imagine the horror that's no doubt setting in right about now in those beautiful, trusting violet eyes. 

You're just short of surging back of the ramp when it shudders beneath you, retracting back beneath the _Meridian_ andnearly taking you with it _._

“Stop him!” you shout as you run out of ramp and roll to the ground. “He's stealing my ship -” 

You would say more, a lot more, but by the time you're on your feet, something hard and rough and thoroughly unsexy cracks you between the eyes. The next you know, there's dirt in your mouth and a stormtrooper’s fist threatening to wrench your hair from your scalp. He drags you to your knees, a hoarse curse tearing at your throat as he slings you back down again several feet away. 

You _want_ to stand up. You _want_ to send your ultrachrome fist through the center of his shiny white chestpiece. But you stay down. You stay down and listen to the familiar blast of the _Meridian’s_ engines tell you that she's not yours anymore. 

There's an unmistakable intake of breath through Red’s helmet - quick and sharp, rushing oxygen to muscle - and you duck your head to brace for another blow. 

“Enough!” someone calls out. “That's quite enough, FN-1943.” 

Mitaka seems to have recovered from his scrap with Dameron, because his voice is cutting, even through the pain, like the academy probably taught him. It surprises you into peeking up through your lashes. He doesn't look like the type that sort of voice should ever come from, not with his boyish looks and fretful eyes, with dark hair falling over his brow and catching in the clotting blood. 

He doesn't waste his breath on further orders to fire upon the _Meridian_ , not even as it lifts off from Dathomir’s surface, landing gears tucking away under all that metal. It would be pointless. Even at close range, blasters wouldn't make a dent in a freighter like her. He _does_ order that a call be relayed immediately to base camp, noting that it contains a very elusive Resistance pilot that one Commander Ren would be be interested in reacquiring. Just how far up their shit list was Dameron that a random officer knew exactly who he was without having seen his face, only his antics and a last name you’d less than casually dropped? Whatever his placement among First Order public enemies, they’d have to get in line because the next time you found him, you’d turn him into space dust. 

Mitaka’s unwillingness to let you be abused at the hands of stormtroopers does not extend to them manhandling you onto your feet within the next few moments and forcing a pair of cuffs over your wrists. 

Oh. 

_Oh_ . 

So this is what it feels like. Cold and hot at the same time, metal charged with focused energy that gets tight and then tighter as your panic rises. 

Can't say you're a fan. Not that you couldn't likely get out if you tried hard enough - augmented arm and all - but you don't see a pleasant way out of this even if you did. Your arm might be able to hold up against a blaster bolt or two but the same can't be said for the rest of you. 

Best to bide your time, to make useful and cross your fingers that the First Order falls for that sort of shtick. Mitaka swipes a hand over his brow, wincing, before coming to stand in front of you. 

“I take it that was not your co-pilot.” 

It's not a question. He's said with just enough edge to make your situation feel all the more inescapable. 

“No, he wasn't,” you answer, that ominous pit in your stomach opening wider. “I was contracted privately to find and acquire him. I was _supposed_ to return him to my client on Lianna but ah, that's unlikely.” 

“Clearly,” Mitaka winces the word out from between his teeth and you suspect he half-wishes you had made of off planet before he'd had the misfortune to cross your path. “You'll come with us. The general will wish to speak to you.” 

“And by speak you mean…” 

He looks at you with something like sympathy. 

“You were captured in the presence of a known Resistance fugitive. You will be interrogated.” 

“That’s...unfortunate.” _But not unexpected_ , you think. Nothing helpful comes to mind right then as a sudden flare burns its way up your thigh. On your knees like you are, the pain in your leg has renewed itself, making the muscle twitch and spasm. 

Of course! The droid...it was a Resistance model. 

A spark of hope dares to flare within your chest. _Here goes nothing…._

“Officer Mitaka?” 

He glances at you, unconvinced by whatever else you might have to say. “ _Lieutenant_ Mitaka. Yes?” 

“Dameron had a droid with him when I captured him inside the ruin - just beyond the copse over there.” You jerk your head in the general direction. “I left it deactivated inside the first antichamber. He seemed concerned over it, for whatever reason. A BB unit, orange and white.” 

You’ve said the right thing, it seems, because _Lieutenant_ Mitaka is suddenly much more interested than he had been previously. “A BB-8 unit? You’re certain?” 

“Fairly, yes,” you assure him. “It put up more of a fight than Dameron did.” 

Mitaka hums something to himself before turning to several of the troopers awaiting their orders nearby. “See that the droid is found,” he says, “General Hux will no doubt wish to have it analyzed.” 

They snap to attention before turning sharply on their heels and marching off into the treeline. You consider offering more information but clamp your lips together to stop yourself - you’ve very few cards to play in this game and it’s best you don’t expend them all on an officer who may or may not hold sway with the general. Swallowing down your words, you watch Mitaka curiously for a long moment. Every flutter of his lashes, every breath he takes, you try to find some measure of compassion within him but everything seems a contradiction. Each glance at you unsure and appraising, each gesture of his hand, be it frustrated or...worried, you realize suddenly. 

He’s _worried_. 

What then, you wonder, should you feel? Because as the stormtroopers lift you to your feet and push you forward, every step feels like the ticking down of a counter. Is this your last chance or will it be in the next step? Indecision is crippling, blood pounding away in your ears. The First Order’s General Hux is awaiting you and you’ve only dubious associations and a penchant for grand larceny to offer him. 


	2. Step 2: The Art of BS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When facing one's impending demise, luck is never imperative to survival. Creativity and a quick mind, however, never make a situation any worse.

The First Order really should be given more credit - at least for mobility if nothing else. Any organization that can mobilize this sort of base camp so quickly and quietly must have something going for it - though you suspect that something is the crushing fear it inspires in its workforce. No less than two dozen semi-permanent tents and shelters have been erected to house a significant host of stormtroopers, officers, and researchers. It’s as impressive as it is daunting. They certainly aren’t here on vacation; they’re looking for something, and you have the niggling suspicion it’s not Resistance strays.   


A rough shove from behind directs you off the shuttle and down once again into the squelching Dathomirian mud. If it weren’t for your preternatural grace and perhaps, the stormtrooper’s hand on your arm, you would’ve been sent sprawling. As it is, you catch yourself and straighten, glaring at Red over your shoulder. Lieutenant Mitaka leaps down behind you. His wound has started to bruise, mottling the skin around his eye socket. The blood had been cleaned away during the ride here from the temple ruins, though doubtless the man’s first stop should be to a medic. 

“You will be taken to a holding cell to await the general’s attention,” he explains. 

You’re not sure why he tells you anything at all; he doesn’t have to. But from the brief way his eyes meet yours, you wonder if he had noticed after all your earlier pleas with Dameron to release him. He really is young and you’re beginning to suspect a half-decent man under all those ribbons and insignias. 

You nod only once, catching and holding his eyes as you do so. It would seem that human connection never fails to catch the young officer off guard, because he swallows hard. The First Order is cold and cruel, brutal even, and you know it, but how is it that their officers, with beating hearts and individual thoughts of their own, can be so...awkward? For a fleeting moment, just a thought that is there and then gone, you find yourself hoping that Mitaka never loses the sense of empathy you catch yourself clinging to now. 

Choking back the near frantic series of questions you have, the sheer need to know, you dip your chin and say only, “Thank you, Lieutenant.” 

At these words, Mitaka stares at you as if your brain has suddenly leaked out from your mouth and splattered over your boots. The weary smile from you that follows does nothing to assuage his apparent concern for your sanity, and it takes him a long moment to clear his throat and then nod at your escorts. They haul you off without any further pleasantries. 

The entire camp appears to have been set on an old battle site. Small craters run deep in the ground, with ugly, wet scars cutting to and fro where high-powered cannons had scorched the earth long before you’d been born. Marsh and thick swampland surround the perimeter - it would be a toss-up for anyone who wandered in there (namely yourself and probably like your ass was on fire) as to whether it’d be a help or a hinderance. Even if you managed to escape any stormtroopers tasked with following you, where would you go? The only ship was Dameron’s, more than thirty klicks away, and Dathomir was next to uninhabited, so there would be nowhere to acquire another one. If, and that was a massive if, you were even to attempt that sort of escape, you’d first need supplies. Supplies needed stealing, stealing needed escaping, escaping needed… 

No, the only option was the one currently before you - wait and see and keep your fingers crossed. 

Before long, you come to the easternmost row of tents and are dumped without ceremony into a durasteel-barred cell. Of course, the First Order would supply jails, even in the ass end of nowhere. At least the walls are solid, rather than energy fields, and that means you can have the luxury of propping yourself up as you waste away. A good look at your new accommodations reveals little outside of walls constructed with heavy grey cloth that’s gone damp in the humidity and a single standing lamp in the corner. Its light is garishly blue after so much time in Dathomir’s red glow and you find yourself turning your back to it when the beginnings of a headache creep between your eyes. The warmth is clawing now that you’ve finally stopped moving. It clings to your skin and catches in your lungs with each breath and the cage feels all the smaller for it. 

Two troopers have been stationed outside the tent’s entrance. You can just see the whites of their boots beneath the flap if you lean down. For what feels like hours, they don’t move, standing like lawn ornaments or statuary or something boring and dull that you hate. It’s only when a pair of black soles step into view that your single source of entertainment actually does something. They step aside. You almost expect Mitaka to emerge but - 

No. Definitely not the good Lieutenant. 

You’ve seen this man before. In holovids and on posters. You had seen him that day the Hosnian System stopped existing, the recording playing over and over as the galaxy paused for a horrific collective moment to try and process what was happening. That image caught in your mind - the monster with the beautiful face and the spewing rhetoric, all lightness swathed in sterile black and dark gloves to hide the bloodstains that would never show. How did something like that, something like him, even happen? 

This man’s hatred went beyond the Resistance. 

You remember the day your own home had rained down around you, rubble pinning you and your family, your parents pawing where your arm had once been to stop the blood pouring out of a child they couldn’t save, wouldn’t have saved if it hadn’t been for the stormtroopers that had swooped in and dragged you out. 

That had made you hate for a long, long time. But even after all that hatred, after Dameron and this clusterfuck you found yourself in, you weren’t like the man before you now. 

At what point did a man hate his enemy so much that war crimes greater than any in galactic history became nothing more than the tactical flexing of muscles? If only the Republic had had the sense to reconsider, to forget about their Jedis and heroes so that their people could live...maybe then Armitage Hux and his breed of draconians wouldn’t be commonplace. But the Republic and their unofficial gorilla force kept pushing, slogging forward, and never once fast enough to do any good. And you, the people like you, like those on Hosnian Prime, got caught up in it. Living with your ass in the air was better than the alternative. 

As he comes to a stop on the other side of the bars, you’re struck with a singular thought: General Hux looks less like a monster in person. 

Tall and slim, cut like a knife’s edge in the black regalia, with eyes that seem bluer and colder under the lamplight. They bring you to your feet, draw you up so you don’t seem quite so small, so insignificant. Another tally added to billions. 

The general says nothing. Not the first word. He just stares down his aquiline nose at you and watches. For all the blasters you’ve had pointed at you today, not a single one has felt as threatening as his assessment of you now. Its everything you can do to not shrink back, to not position yourself so that your cybernetics are between you and him. Your hands flex by your sides, clenching and unclenching. Waiting. Observing as much as you are observed. 

Without a word to you, Hux turns crisply on his heel and glides back through the tent entrance the way he came. Breath is shuddering out from your lips when you hear him say, “Bring her.” 

You don’t fight the guards as they drag you out, grateful for the air if nothing else, not quite as stiflingly humid outside as it had been in the tent. Dathomir’s night has bathed the planet in a deep crimson, rather ominous for your tastes, though you suppose it might be fitting. The walk to what you can only describe as a command center turns out to be a short one. This structure is larger than the others, sturdier, and lined with large, mobile relays on either side. The inordinate number of guards is perhaps the most glaring giveaway that this is, for all purposes, a lair. 

The inside of the central hub is ablaze in glowing blue - holograms and projections showing what you can only guess are different sections of the planet itself. A few blueprints of old temples are being chattered over on the far side of the room. You recognize a few of them, having considered them as possible sites of interest to your now failed acquisition. 

The general is hard to miss amidst the hustle and bustle, due in part to the wide berth the resident minions grant him. The only one who stands anywhere near him is a rather exhausted-looking Mitaka. His brow has been re-bandaged, hiding most of what had been a nasty bruise. Mitaka spies your escort, dipping his head to say as much to Hux, who displays no immediate interest. The general’s gaze is fixed on the projection in front of him. Unlike the others, this one isn’t of blueprints or maps. It appears to be a scan, an actual recording of the same ruined walls you had lamented over earlier in the day. If you’re not mistaken, these had come from the archway above the antechamber door where you’d first ambushed Dameron. The triptych-style relief is the same one you remember, tribal and ancient. 

You’re so engrossed in the flat, stylized shapes, most of the figures distinctly feminine and curving, yet noticeably aggressive, that you don’t notice the general has finally turned to face you. 

When he says your name - your real name, not one of your aliases - it snaps you from your reverie and leaves you blinking up at him in surprise. 

“You’ve quite the storied career,” he says and that voice doesn’t make your skin prick like you imagined it would. It’s elegant and sharp, not one syllable wasted, and somehow it sounds a world away from the first time you’d heard it. “An acquisitionist, is it?” 

You need to speak. You have to say something to make yourself feel less like an animal in a corner. 

“Indeed, General.” It’s all you can get past your tongue. 

The flare of his nostrils makes you think he smells blood in the water. Like some Firaxan shark, your mind supplies, and you’re struck by the similarities with the predator. You shouldn’t be here, treading, biding your time and waiting for him to swallow you whole. The scans draw you in once more, familiar, safe, something from before you’d been here, and you let yourself focus on those instead of the intense blue eyes that study you so harshly. 

“Tell me,” Hux says, “how much does one have to pay to have a Resistance spy hand delivered?” 

Your eyes flick to his, boldness swelling within you. You’re being mocked and that’s just one more reason to hate this man. 

“Only 100,000 credits.” You can’t help but glance then at Mitaka. “I even throw in their droids for free.” 

There’s a flash of either temper or amusement, maybe both, as those pale lashes of his drop low. His shoulders draw back, broader than before, as if he’s caught himself at just the same moment you have. 

“You speak of the BB unit, of course,” he says evenly, “We had been looking diligently for it, I’ll admit. To think a common bounty hunter would just stumble across it…” 

You lift your chin. “You mean to imply some elaborate ruse? I have to admit, sir, my rates are usually much higher for those.” 

Mitaka’s loud intake of breath warns you how close you likely are to a blaster to the back of the skull. And you might well be. The wise thing to do would be to stop, to go back to studying the scans, and let them distract you into fearful compliance. 

But the general, he doesn’t seem the type impressed by fear. 

Hux offers no sign that he believes your acquaintance with Poe Dameron was but a byproduct of a business arrangement. He does, however, notice your seeming fixation with the scans. 

“Tell me,” he begins, “Are you aware of the fugitive’s intentions in the ruins?” 

Well...sort of? Does ‘sort of’ count? You think back to the time you had devoted to tracking Dameron down, a job that had started on Lianna and then led to the Ring of Kafrene before he finally made his way to Dathomir. The odd transmission had been intercepted, though he had not sent many of them, and most were of the vague variety common to people seeking black market contacts. You had recognized one man Dameron had met with while on Kafrene, or the colors he wore at least, as a member of a Cathar smuggling ring who specialized in Force relics. 

The knot in your gut tells you that admitting any further knowledge of Dameron’s Resistance business will not end in your favor. Half-truths and white lies have always been a safer bet in your experience. 

“I’m not, I’m afraid. Wasn’t my concern. My only job was locating him and then returning with him to Lianna. A diplomat by the name of Sani Keen will tell you as much. Though…” Once more, your eyes drift again to those same embossed figures so perfectly displayed before you. “I can imagine that I might not be wrong in assuming he was there for something of the Nightsisters.” 

You are on Dathomir, after all, and the Nightsisters were the primary force-sensitive residents of the planet. You need to come up with something. Something that makes you relevant enough not to execute. But you need time and the general doesn’t look as if he’s willing to grant it. 

Quickly, obviously so, you ask, “If I may - is the First Order after the same...asset? Assuming there is one.” 

You don’t wait for his answer, barely registering the cocked eyebrow that your question earns you. Looking at the scans, you see too much blue, too little detail. You need to get closer but you don’t dare. Kark! Had there been anything that had caught your eye when you’d first noticed these carvings? Representations of Dathomirian witches and their rituals, displayed step by engraved step. It shows magick rather than technology, belief without need of evidence. Every inch of space has been used...that, that could be something, you reason. The panels had been too far above your head for you to read in the ruins but now you notice the inscriptions where the blank space would normally be. Prayers, if you had to guess, maybe curses, given the subject matter displayed. Your ancient Dathomirian is rusty if you're being generous, nonexistent if you're being honest, so there's no way for you to know for certain but... 

Something...there has to be something! 

“I can’t see why you would be interested in supposed magicks,” you mutter half-heartedly, hoping for any response, any distraction at all. “Or is it...a relic?” 

This catches your own attention as much as it does the general’s. 

You press on. “They would have been plundered decades ago, what few they had. Powerful though, if you could find them...infused with dark energies and all that...” 

What in stars’ name could he be looking for? 

Nightsisters, Nightbrothers, covens, clans...they had the typical relics found on every planet, every ancient culture. A reliquary can be seen in the hands of one figure, something that might be an urn or a carafe in another...Damn it all! You were floundering like a fish out of water. Frustrated, you tilted your head, squinting hard until - 

“Well, I’ll be damned.” The words slip out before you know you’ve said them. 

“Are you quite finished?” Hux’s voice brings you up short. 

“I am if you wish me to be, General,” you say. “Though, when you have a moment, you may wish to take a closer look just there.” You can’t point, of course, with the shackles binding your wrists. You speak just to frustrate him enough to take the bait. 

Within the breadth of a second, he has stepped flush with you. The hairs on the back of your neck prick in response. The nearness of him is like having a knife your gut, all sharp edges and danger. One side of his mouth curls in a snarl as he glares at you. 

“Mind your place,” he says, “The First Order does not require the assistance of a common thug.” 

No, you don’t, you think, not really. Not with all the researchers at his disposal, at least one of which has to be a step above stupid. But all you have to do is plant a seed of doubt, something to buy time. 

You’ve found it first, the thorn in his side he’s yet to notice. Because he’s been reading the entire scan wrong, seeing it for what it is - a mural depicting little more than a run-of-the-mill ritual for the planet’s equinox. You’d seen something similar in your studies at the university on Bar’leth a lifetime ago. They are common representations; the panels will tell him nothing important simply because there is nothing important. Just a thousand years worth of ritualistic hoopla. 

“Of course, General,” you concede gently. “I only wished for the lieutenant to know that I hadn’t lied to him earlier.” 

The pale line of Hux’s jaw tightens and he turns his head to scowl at Mitaka, who looks positively crushed that you’ve dragged him into this. 

“Lied to him about what? Of what is she speaking, Lieutenant?” 

Mitaka’s mouth drops open, only to close a half second later. Somehow, you suspect he’s searching as desperately for an answer as you had been a minute ago. 

“I...I...sir?” Mitaka glances at you and if that’s not a plea for help, you don’t know what is. 

Clearing your throat, you come to his rescue. 

“I only told him that I was a historian, which isn’t untrue, and that I didn’t believe the temple etchings had been carved by Dathomirian magick. Which is true. Or, mostly true. Perhaps some of them were,” you motion with your shoulder to the centermost point of the scan, “but certainly not all.” 

Hux’s brows drop low, obscuring most of of his eyes. You’d like nothing more than to look away, knowing that he understands a play when he sees one. He holds himself like he’s a single fuse short of blowing, but there’s a gleam in his eye that makes you wonder if he’s not excited by this little game. He very much strikes you as the type who appreciates cleverness. Wheels are turning in the depths of that mind, genius in its own right, and you wonder what exactly you’ve inspired in him. Because all the contempt is fading slowly into something that looks more like conniving. 

The alarms sound in your brain too late. He’s watching you now as if he’s no longer trying to figure out what to do with you, but rather how to use you. How to employ you, and you doubt it’s in the way that ends with you getting paid. 

“What do you see?” he commands. 

You shift from foot to foot, debating on whether or not you should offer your restrained wrists up, a favor for a favor. Survival instinct stops you. You’ve far from proven useful yet. 

“I see two radically different carvings,” you begin, “Different methods, different artists. I’d wager entirely different cultures, genders, and belief systems. Not to mention at least eight centuries between them.” 

Hux is bemused, humming to himself. He looks with interest to the scan, as if he might spot what you’ve left unsaid. He might even see those differences you’ve listed, but you doubt seriously that he’ll notice anything else. 

“Continue.” 

This gives you pause. If you say too much, give too much away, he’ll set his endless team of researchers to do the rest. It has been a very long time since you’d studied a relief like this one with anything more than a leisurely interest. Ancient histories and cultures had once seemed to you a natural choice for study and for most of your late teenage years, you’d counted yourself among the students in one of the galaxy’s premier antiquities programs. Though, to be fair, if there was anything you were better at than finding old stuff, it was bullshitting about old stuff. 

“Look at the borders...there and over there.” 

First, you nod to the image in front of you, then to one that is on display to your right, surrounded by an entirely separate team of researchers. 

“That one,” you explain, speaking of the adjacent image, “What do you see that's different, General?” 

Hux sniffs sharply, clasping his hands behind his back as he looks at the second relief. You're surprised he's done as you suggested, though it's most likely because he won't let himself be one-upped in the presence of his own soldiers. He looks again to the archway relief before his eyes suddenly go wide. He has seen it. Color you impressed. 

“The borders...they’re different. The hallway carving lacks the pattern. A different design.” 

That self-satisfied jut of his chin tells you he knows he's right. 

You grin, all teeth. “Precisely, sir.” 

“I hardly see why pointing out something as insignificant as a pattern is noteworthy,” he snaps. 

“Oh, but it is.” It's all or nothing, now. His attention is yours for the moment. You decide to hedge your bets. “That border...that's how I can tell you what you're looking for, what that nerf-herder Dameron was looking for.” 

Or rather, how you can take a mile-wide guess at it and hope for the best. 

Again, the image of a shark comes to mind, and his attention circles back towards you quicker than you can avoid it. 

“Can you now?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you say with a firm nod of your head, “You’re after a kaiburr shard.” 

Hux’s chest swells beneath his uniform; you’ve done it, you’ve rattled him. 

The outburst that follows startles both you and Mitaka, the two of you flinching back from the general, putting space between yourself and the words that follow. 

“Guards,” Hux snaps and the stormtroopers standing at your back are suddenly closer than they had been. “Escort this Resistance spy back to her cell -” 

“What?!” Heart in your throat, you take a stumbling step forward, only to be jerked back. “No! I swear -” 

“What?” Hux hisses at you. He’s inches from you within a moment, nose to nose, and there’s no way he can’t feel the breath rattling in your chest. The smell of mint is going to choke you. “You couldn’t know of the kaiburr unless someone told you. The same person who threw you to us -” 

“General Hux, I swear - it’s there! It’s all right there!” 

He waves a hand at you, dismissive and final. “Take her!” 

You want to argue but nothing logical comes to you as your mind reels. You'd been so close! You're hauled clear off your feet, a stormtrooper on either arm and you can't fight them, not when there's nowhere to go. 

“Sir, if I may-” 

Mitaka’s voice stops your thrashing cold, your muscles locking down as if he's pressed a button. 

“What is it, Lieutenant?” 

“I believe, s-sir, that she's telling the truth.” 

The troopers must sense the change in the air, because they stop long enough to look back at the general. That barely contained outrage is simmering again, only this time it's directed at the young officer stammering his way through your defence. 

“Sir, all of the evidence found at the scene indicates that the...bounty hunter is telling the truth. Both she and Dameron arrived in separate ships, sir, and both flight logs coordinate with her relayed version of events. And...there were signs of a struggle within the chamber, sir. She had indeed attempted to restrain Dameron aboard the ship-” 

“Then she's an incompetent bounty hunter at the very least, Lieutenant.” 

“Perhaps, sir. But she tried numerous times to convince the fugitive to release me.” At this he blushes, no doubt less than thrilled at reliving his own mistakes. “And were it not for her willingness to provide information, we may not have found the Resistance droid, sir.” 

“You will find people are often more forthcoming when under duress, Lieutenant,” Hux says, “You give the thug too much credit.” 

“As you say, General. I only meant to suggest that she…” Mitaka’s eyes flash to yours and bless him, bless him, he's the decent sort after all. “That she remain a prisoner -” 

Nevermind. 

“- until her allegiance can be proven. I-I volunteer myself and Squadron Seven for supervision, of course.” 

Fortune favors the bold, you tell yourself, sucking in a steadying breath. 

“General! Sir,” you start, “I - I volunteer my services happily to the First Order. You have my full cooperation, I assure you. Keep me in chains if you wish, I'm no less adept at deciphering the past.” Or lying about it. You choke down a mouthful of air and press what small measure of luck you’ve found further. “Sir, I've my own issues with the Resistance, beyond having my ship stolen, and if this...helps, in whatever capacity, I'm yours to command.” 

It was true enough. For now. 

General Hux considers your words, however, it is Mitaka who bears the brunt of his scrutiny. The officer is remarkably stalwart, bandage and all, his hands linked behind his back in deference. 

Finally, just as you think you can hold your breath no longer, Hux speaks. He turns to one of the guards and says, “See that the warden produces one of the old slave collars and have it brought to me.” 

The trooper snaps a solute and is gone. You hardly notice, too caught on the words ‘slave collar' to hear much else. Hux turns to you and you feel the full weight of him and all that he is fall over you. These are dangerous waters and you can either sink or swim. Because this is the man who had obliterated an entire system and if he did not have a reason, whatever it may be, he would never have thought twice about doing the same to you. 

“Prove yourself,” Hux tells you, “and you may live long enough to see the Resistance fall.” 

“Yes, General,” it’s more breath than words when you speak, “I’m proud to assist the First Order.” 

“Then assist,” he says, motioning you forward with a sweep of his hand. “What evidence is there of a kaiburr crystal on the relief?” 

You move to stand beside him. Mitaka catches your eye as you pass, his features softened, and if you’re not mistaken, you think there might be the slightest tremble around his shoulders and hands. You’re both still standing - that has to count for something. 

Clearing your throat, you look up at Hux and say quietly, “The decorative border there, sir? The one that’s different? It was added much later than the original carving, and I think created with lasers. See the faint scorching?” 

It’s hard to spot if you don’t know what you’re looking for, but there’s a tell-tale shadow, made even fainter by the recording. You might not have thought about it if you hadn’t thought it odd when you’d first viewed the panel in person. 

Hux murmurs something very faintly; you don’t know what he’s said and you won’t ask. 

“The design -” 

“It’s not uniform,” he concludes suddenly, “It lacks rhyme and reason.” 

Well, you’re taken aback, leave it to the military genius to look for a pattern. But he’s exactly right. There isn’t one. Just a seemingly random series of jagged lines along the edges, glaringly obvious against the curves and swirls of the witches’ relief now that you’ve spotted it. Peaks and valleys, running like lightning strikes. Two valleys here, then a peak, then another pair of valleys...it goes on and on. 

You’ve seen methods like this one before, though never in traditional archaeology. It’s not an unusual method of communication amongst smugglers and denizens of the underworld - a method discrete enough to go unnoticed if one is not looking for it. It would not even have occurred to you as a possibility had you not spotted the significant differences in style and age in the carving. 

Your words are nearly a whisper, as gentle as you can make them so as not to draw his attention to the fact that you’d noticed it first. 

“It’s binary, General.” 

“Ridiculous,” he huffs, “The witches were heathens. They would never have employed such means.” 

Mitaka, you notice, has inched nearer to the two of you. His eyes are intent on the scans, following the border’s path. 

“But...where does it begin?” he asks curiously. He appears to miss Hux’s cutting scowl in his direction, the general unappreciative of his interruption. 

“There,” you say, “Just above the figure of the clan mother. She’s the central figure, the most powerful, the most important. It’s only logical to assume that whoever had a kaiburr crystal in their possession - or sought to, if nothing else - would resonate with that. It runs to the right, by the way.” 

The younger man’s lips quirk up in a sudden grin. “Yes! Yes, I -” 

“Lieutenant!” 

Mitaka flinches at Hux’s reprimand, stepping back into his former place at once. “Apologies, sir.” 

Hux pins him for a moment longer, those blue eyes unyielding, before finally turning his attention once more to your subject of study. 

“‘Pomojema’ is the first word,” you tell him, directing his attention to a long series of dips and valleys. “A god-figure from Mimban. His temple there is said to have originally housed the crystal long ago. During my studies at university, I was assigned a paper on deities in Expansion Region cultures. Texts were hard to come by, but that’s where I first encountered the name. The Kaiburr was practically Pomojema’s only claim to fame. Peaked my interest for a while. I’ve no idea what happened to the original crystal, but shards have continually cropped up for the last three thousand years...from what I understand, even those are massively powerful.” 

From the expression on Hux’s face, you gather that he knows this. 

“I’ll need a droid,” you say, “but this can be done within the hour.” 

“That issue is already being addressed. The Resistance unit is being reprogrammed as we speak. If the rebels had access to additional information, it will soon be ours. Lieutenant Mitaka will oversee your utilization of the droid. You have three hours. Do not disappoint me.” 

And with that, Hux is gone, striding away to the far side of the shelter to terrify a group of researchers. The man operates at full capacity, non-stop, and it leaves you reeling. 

You blink at Mitaka, who seems unphased by Hux’s prompt departure. 

“He’s…” You don’t know where to begin. 

“In an unusually good mood today,” Mitaka finishes for you. He adjusts himself so as to better face you. “You impressed him, Captain.” 

The term hits you square in the chest. You glance at your boots, stomach roiling again. 

“I’m not really a captain anymore, am I?” 

You give him a half-hearted smile he returns and begin to speak, only to be interrupted by the reappearance of the trooper from earlier, the one Hux had sent off to the warden. The collar in his hands draws your eyes like a magnet. Smooth and metal, shaped like an open ring, it looks innocuous enough but you’ve seen enough like it to know that it’s capable of delivering an electric shock strong enough to stop your heart. Mitaka follows your gaze and shifts uncomfortably at your side. 

“At least your hands will be free,” he says quietly. 

A breathless laugh escapes you. “At least I’m alive. That’s more than I’d hoped for...and due in no small part to you.” 

A deep flush creeps past the edges of the Lieutenant’s collar. 

“I - yes, well...I felt it prudent. Today has been trying for everyone.” 

Any further response is interrupted by the sudden looming presence at your side. The stormtrooper orders you to remain still while he drops the ring across the back of your neck. The metal bites your flesh, a fraction short of too tight. With a beep and a click, the trigger is set and any excessive tampering on your part will induce a current potent enough to bring you to your knees. Your previous restraints are removed, the relief now overshadowed by the more dangerous tool around your throat. 

When the trooper is finished, you turn to Mitaka and it takes your voice to draw his eyes from the ground. 

“Well,” you say expectantly, “how do I look? First Order chic?” 

His smile doesn’t meet his eyes. 

“Did you know,” you press on, “that collars like this one have been found dating back to the Old Republic? Some of them still work.” 

“That’s…” 

“A fun fact for trivia nights at the Officer’s Lounge. Now,” you motion to the scan, only to drop your hand before he can notice the trembling, “shall we?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that the common Kyber and Kaiburr are two different things, just so there’s no confusion. Sit back and enjoy the patchwork Indiana Jones space romp and kindly ignore my casual bs-ing my way through the lore. Thanks for reading, best to all of you!


End file.
